


Borderline Trespasses

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Consent Issues, Day 1: Deal with the Devil/Power Struggle, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating for later chapters, sladerobin week 2018
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 01:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16419581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Jason's been a wanderer for years, taking odd jobs in exchange for shelter and food and never staying all that long in any one place. He's good at it; avoiding settlements that are dangerous, keeping himself fed and warm on a more or less stable basis. At least until he's ambushed, taken prisoner by a group he didn't even know he was in the territory of. Then it just comes down to the choice he's offered. Slave labor, or captivity of a more... personal kind?





	Borderline Trespasses

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is a day late because I was fighting with another story till far later than I should have, but this is my story for day 1 of the 2018 SladeRobin Week. The prompts for the day are: Power Struggle/Exchange / Deal with the Devil. Enjoy!
> 
> [You can find my tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

It’s an odd mark, the one that his feet are leaving as they drag through the dirt. Bound tight at the ankle and the knee, a thick branch lashed to both cords to force his legs straight like some kind of involuntarily enforced splint. It’s basic, and unfortunately effective. Jason wonders, with distant irritation, why he never thought of doing something like it before. It might have been useful in getting some of his kills far enough away from their place of death to not draw immediate scavengers; stop the legs from just going all over the place.

(Because he doesn’t hunt humans, is the simple answer. You don’t need to stop something from running if you kill it where it stands. But if you take something living…)

Maybe it’s not the best thing to be focusing on, but there’s not much else he can see from where he’s facing backwards, hands on each arm keeping his torso suspended. He’s been trying, unsuccessfully, to get the cords around his wrists to come free, but all it feels like he’s doing is rubbing his wrists raw. It might be easier if his head didn’t ache, pulsing pain out from his temple in regular waves, and with every out of sync jerk of the people carrying him. Maybe then he could manage to focus on something, or at least ignore the panic slowly building its way up inside his chest.

There are two lines, more or less even, where his heels are digging into the dirt. It’s a clear track to follow, and none of the group that’s ambushed him has stopped to cover it, which means that they don’t care if someone sees it. That, in turn, means that they probably don’t think there’s anyone else around stupid enough to go stumbling into their territory without an invitation.

Jason doesn’t remember seeing any markers, but it was well into the afternoon and cloudy, so maybe he missed them. He wasn’t looking for markers. No one in the last town he was in had mentioned anyone to avoid out in this direction, but then he didn’t mention he was going this way. Telling strangers what direction you’re heading is usually a real easy way to get yourself ambushed the second you’re away from anyone that might hear the gunshots.

Or maybe this is one of the groups that hunts humans just like any other animal, and they _don’t_ mark their territory so that prey stumbles into it.

His breath sharpens, and Jason makes himself focus on those tracks, pushing everything else out of his head as he breathes in, and out again. Does that again, and again, until he feels a little more in control of himself and a little less likely to start shouting hysterically through the cloth gag tied around his head.

It doesn’t matter. Even if he is going to get used as meat, the only thing that means is that his window of escape is a little shorter. He could just as easily have been taken just for trespassing, or as slave labor, or a dozen other things. He’s not going to know till they get to wherever they’re taking him, and unfortunately it’s really starting to look like he doesn’t have any chance of avoiding that.

Even if he could get his hands free, then what? He was already tied when he came to, but he’d bet his weapons are gone, and he knows his pack is with one of them. He’d still have the seemingly impossible task of getting his legs loose while fending them off, and then actually outrunning them in their own territory. Those are odds he doesn’t want to take (especially with one of them presumably holding his rifle).

Not that he has any choice about whether to take them or not, honestly.

They’re silent, and there’s no point trying to speak through the gag so Jason stays silent too, working at his wrists and letting everything else go blank. He keeps his gaze on those tracks.

It’s probably a good hour before the group starts to pick up their pace, a few of them exchanging some joking words that Jason doesn’t come back to himself in time to catch. But whatever they were, a moment later his feet are bumping up onto pavement, greying and cracked like everything else from the old world, but solid under his heels where the dirt was softer.

He twists his head to try and get a better look at where they’ve arrived at, wincing at the throb of pain as his skull protests the different angle.

It’s a large stretch of the stuff, unlike the roads he’s familiar with, interrupted only by the broken points where trees have forced their way through; nothing else has grown through, except what barely clings to a thin layer of dirt in some areas. He ends up having to tip his head back, looking at everything upside down, to finally see the building they’re coming up on.

It’s bigger than most of the buildings Jason’s seen still standing, apart from the broken towers of the goliaths in Gotham’s ruins. Those were messes of twisted steel and shattered glass, and this one isn’t nearly so large but it also doesn’t look nearly so destroyed. There are plants climbing up the sides of the walls, and the corner they’re approaching is broken open (like something hit it with enough force to smash through) but it’s still standing. It even looks… sturdy.

Defensible, a more reasonable part of his mind says. One massive, rectangle of a building with — as far as he can see — solid walls and a roof? That’s an easy stronghold.

One of the people in his group of ambushers whistles, short and sharp.

Then, only a moment later, someone steps into view on the roof and whistles back, the same note and length. He’s dressed like the rest of them, in worn cloth and jackets, layered enough to look appropriate for the slight chill in the air. The decorations seem to be individual, not that Jason’s had all that much time to look at them, facing backwards like he is, but the clothes all have roughly the same look to them. It’s oddly similar; most groups Jason’s come across don’t look anything alike, what with most clothing being either scavenged or put together by hand.

He keeps his head hanging backwards, since they don’t seem to have any intention of flipping him over so he can actually watch. It’s not comfortable, but he can ignore the pain in exchange for actually knowing what’s going on, and having _some_ chance to react if anything comes at him.

It’s vaguely sickening, but he swallows the nausea and keeps his eyes open, watching the whole thing upside down as they pull him through the destroyed part of the wall.

Jason’s seen a fair number of settlements and shelters in his life, some built more cleverly than others, but the one inside this building is not bad at all. The ceiling is high, sheet metal and supports making up a roof that looks pretty much intact, apart from scattered circles carved out of it that are letting light spill in. It illuminates enough that even without the fire pits scattered around, he can see pretty much everything. Everything in view, anyway.

There are smaller buildings in here, made out of wood and metal, or sometimes just the kind of tent that Jason’s used himself more than once. Some of it might be mobile, but a lot of it looks like permanent installations. And there are _people_ , a couple dozen that he can see just at first glance. People that are starting to pay attention to him, as his captors pull him further into the settlement.

Jason bites down on the gag, looking around for any kind of other exit, anything he might be able to use. There’s stuff, he can see it immediately — fire, weapons, hostages — but none of it is going to help him get out of these damn cords.

If he could just get his fucking hands free he could do _something_ , but the restraints stay stubbornly tight as two of his escorts pull him to a metal post driven down into the concrete floor and shove his back up against it. He struggles how he can, but a few twists of his torso and some muffled grunts don’t stop them from lashing him to the post. Only when he can barely wiggle, cords tight enough to make it slightly difficult to breathe, do they step back.

One stays while the other walks off, joining the rest of the group that ambushed him as they cross the room, speaking among themselves but too quietly for Jason to catch anything. One of the men has his pack slung over a shoulder, and Jason has one sharp moment of wanting to shout for it before common sense takes hold. It’s too late. He’s not getting it back.

His gaze snaps back to the man still next to him as he crouches down, and Jason makes a muffled sound of warning that’s entirely ignored as his legs are reached for. All the hands go for are the restraints though, and it only takes a few moments to undo the cords tying the branch to him and pull it away. His legs are stiff, and it hurts, but Jason curls them in anyway, coiling to strike if he needs to. He doesn't really have any way to do much damage, but he glares anyway, trying to imply the threat with just his look.

The man only smirks and gets back up, holding the branch in one hand. His tone's mocking when he says, “Sit tight; boss’ll be around to deal with you soon.”

Bastard doesn't give him any chance to respond, just turns and heads back towards the entrance, spinning the branch in his hands like it's some kind of staff. Jason glares after him for a few seconds, but gives it up soon enough. It's not like it's going to do him any good, and if he has even a minute alone, he has to use it.

To that end, he takes a closer look at his immediate surroundings; it's not particularly helpful. He's relatively close to one of the fire pits — he can just barely feel the heat coming off it — but that's it. There's nothing else for him to use, and though he feels at the pole behind him as much as he's able, there are no edges for him to work with. He doesn't have any way out of the restraints.

Fuck.

Okay, well, that's not a great start.

He cranes his head back to take a look at the top of the pole, and finds to his annoyance that there's a big lip on the top of it. Smooth-edged, damnit. No, even if he could manage to get his legs underneath him with them still tied together, and slide up, the cords around his torso are way too tight to let him get off the pole with that extra width up there. He's really, really stuck.

Without anything else to do, Jason ends up just looking around, trying to study the people that are within his range of vision. Most of them are taking glances at him, but none look all too interested. No one comes over. They all seem to be involved in something, either moving with purpose or bent over some task or another. It's quieter than most settlements Jason's been in; usually there are families, sometimes kids…

When his gaze snags on a man actually heading directly towards him, Jason focuses in on him. Relatively tall, older, with white hair and a neat moustache. As he comes right up, Jason picks out the light grey of his eyes too, and the straight-backed posture. There's a holstered gun at one thigh and a combat knife on the other, but the man doesn't go for either of them, and he stops irritatingly just out of range of a kick from Jason's bound legs.

"Hello there," the man says, not entirely unfriendly. He's got an accent, British. "I hear my men found you wandering in our territory."

Jason clenches his teeth down on the fabric of the gag, glaring upwards because what else is he supposed to do? It's not like he can answer. (Not like he's been asked any questions.)

For a while, the man only looks at him. Studying him, openly, with a look that makes Jason feel — stupidly, illogically — like he's being seen straight through. Like it cuts right past his clothes, his skin, right down into the blood and bone of him. He doesn't like it. Usually when people look at him like that it doesn't turn out well for him; he's even less liking it being aimed at him when he's already at such a disadvantage.

A small nod, apparently mostly to himself. "I don't think you meant to, did you? You don't seem like one of our enemies, though of course it's hard to know that for sure. If you were sent to spy, of course you wouldn't look like one." The man sinks down to one knee, arm resting across the one still lifted. "Either way, we always have uses for young men, if they can be trusted to work. I'm afraid we don't usually allow anyone who enters our territory without permission to leave. At least not right away."

Fuck.

Jason's not _surprised_ , and enforced labor definitely isn't the worst that could happen, but it's not going to be fun either. God knows how long he might be stuck here, and honestly he's not sure he believes that's going to be all that happens to him. He's never been in a settlement that didn't have at least a couple people more than willing to take advantage of anyone they can, and no one's an easier target than a prisoner. (That's assuming that 'work' even means something as simple as labor, and not something a whole lot more humiliating.)

If he could, he'd happily tell the bastard that it's a fucking unfair sentence, considering that their markings are so easily missed, if they even exist. But he can't, and pride makes him unwilling to try and get something to be understandable through the gag.

"Though I have to admit," the man says, with a thin smile, "you don't much strike me as the sort to take any of this easy. I really do try to avoid those that are more trouble than they're worth; unruly guests are rarely worth the mess they make." One eyebrow lifts. "Or how they might convince other guests to misbehave."

So, there are other prisoners in here. Well, that at least means he won't be the only target available, if this place is like all the others.

"Perhaps we can come up with some alternative path. My name is Wintergreen. I—” The grey gaze flicks up and past him as he cuts off, and then a moment later he sighs, shifting back to standing with only a hint of his age in how he moves. "Of course. Why do I bother?"

Jason tries to crane his neck far enough to see whatever it is that’s grabbed his attention, but he can’t. His own gets pulled back when Wintergreen starts speaking to him again.

“Well, we’ll have to finish our introductions later on, I suppose.” One hand brushes what seems like imaginary dirt off the knee that touched the ground. “Best of luck, boy. We’ll speak later.”

With that cryptic-as-fuck warning (blessing?) given, Wintergreen turns on a heel and strides off towards some other part of the compound as Jason stares after him, nerves rising high and tight in his chest. Maybe luckily, maybe not, he only has a few moments for his thoughts to tailspin into trying to figure out what could possibly be coming for him.

Then there’s the rhythm of footsteps just behind him, single person, and a man loops into view to stand over him. Jason looks up, and _up_ , and his skull presses to the metal pipe as he finally gets enough of an angle to see the man’s face.

He’s _massive_. Taller than anyone Jason can ever remember meeting, with the breadth of shoulders and musculature to match. Unlike the others he’s not dressed for the chill in the air, and the rolled up sleeves of his shirt expose corded forearms that Jason’s pretty sure are as thick as his neck. At the top of all that is unnaturally white hair, hanging to the sharp edge of the man’s jaw and matching the neat beard at his chin, and a single, ice-blue eye looking down at him. He’s so pinned under the intensity of it that it takes him longer than it should to realize that the other one is covered by an eyepatch, strap of it cutting across the man’s face.

When his gaze flickers to that is when White-Hair sinks to a crouch at his side, knees ending up only bare inches away from him and _fuck_ the fabric of his pants pulls tight against his thighs and Jason can’t help but swallow. He— Fuck, he’s met a lot of dangerous people, but no one’s tripped his instincts quite as hard as this in a long time. (For a long time, _Jason’s_ been one of the most dangerous things in any given area.)

A hand lifts, and he jerks his head away but it catches him anyway. The broad, calloused hand cups the side of his throat and twists his head back, pushing his chin up with the point of a thumb. It forces eye contact, and Jason tries not to look unnerved but the man must be able to feel the rushing pound of his heart against his palm. It’s only inches and a little violent intention away from squeezing shut on his throat, and that makes his pulse kick up another notch.

Even if he wasn’t tied up, Jason thinks he’d be too tense to move anyway.

“Not bad,” White-Hair says, voice deep enough to match his size. “The men were bragging that you didn’t put up any real fight—” Jason’s mouth curls into as much of a snarl as it can, around the gag “—but none of them mentioned it was because they surprised you.”

The hand lets him go, fingers sweeping up his hairline to where Jason can still feel the flakiness of dried blood and prodding into the sore point. Jason flinches to the side with a grunt. He’s mostly not dizzy anymore, thankfully, but it _hurts_.

When his eyes flick open again, White-Hair is studying him. It takes him a second to place the idle regard as the same way you might look over an animal, and Jason’s barely recognized that before he’s saying, “Crooked nose. In need of a good wash; I’d guess most of the dirt will come off—”

_Anger_ washes up Jason’s chest, and he jerks his head away from the fingers still resting lightly at his temple and twists as much as he can to kick his bound legs out. Even if he can just knock this _bastard_ on his ass for a second, it’ll be worth it. He’s not a piece of fucking meat to be inspected, and this son of a bitch—

A hand clamps down on his calves, shoving them down against the concrete before they can hit the bastard’s legs and unbalance him. The other hand finds the side of his head again, but this time it comes with fingers coiling into his hair and holding him still even as he snarls and thrashes against the bonds everywhere else he can. Not that it’s much.

And White-Hair’s _smirking_ , eye glittering with amusement as he keeps his legs pinned with the pressure of that single hand. “Got spirit though, boy, don’t you? I guess you’ll do then.”

Jason jerks as far away as he can when White-Hair lets go of him, doing his best to bare his teeth around the gag. Though it doesn't seem to faze him at all, because there's no hesitation in how he reaches to one side of his waist, pulling free a disturbingly large knife with ease. Jason's boots scrape the concrete as he shoves with them, but there's no more getting out of the cords now than there was earlier. All he can do is make a muffled, protesting sound as White-Hair spins the knife in his hand with easy familiarity.

“Relax, boy,” he orders, but Jason still flinches when he starts to move, free hand bracing against his shoulder as that knife moves for his back.

There's added pressure against his chest, cords biting in even through his clothes, and then a sharp _snap_ that instantly relieves it. The restraints fall loose, and it takes Jason the couple of moments where the remaining length of cord is pulled away from him to really register that he's been released. Well, not his hands, and not his legs, but he can breathe a little easier and he can— he can move now. If he can just get his hands on something sharp, he can get out of here.

Then the hand on his shoulder tightens, drags him forward, and suddenly his world is tilting violently. A panicked burst of sound escapes him, the concrete coming at his face with alarming speed. It never hits. Something solid digs into his gut, and then he's being lifted. It takes him a couple sharp breaths, as much because of the shock as the renewed dizziness in his skull, to realize that he's slung over the White-Hair's shoulder like a sack.

For a few seconds all he can do is gape, utterly stunned. Then, when the shock starts to fade, he struggles. He's got a little more leeway now that he's not tied to the pole; enough to force the grip on the back of his thighs to tighten and hold him a little more securely. He seriously considers, for a good couple seconds, headbutting the ass that's pretty much right in his face, but pride and the shred of logic he's got left overrules that idea. One, he's not going to slam his face into some stranger's ass on purpose, and two, it wouldn't do any good anyway. His head's not that hard. (Now if he had his teeth, well…)

Rejecting that bit of desperation only leaves him with wiggling, doing as much as he can to destabilize how he's draped down onto White-Hair’s back, shoulder digging into his gut with every movement. But after a minute he stops, because he's starting to feel decidedly nauseous and he's not keen on losing whatever's still in his stomach. He clenches his teeth around the gag, closes his eyes not to see the sickening rush of ground beneath him, and tries to focus on just catching his breath and absolutely _not throwing up._

It means he's surprised when there's the sound of a door. He opens his eyes just in time to see it start to swing shut as they pass through the frame, but then the hand at his thighs pulls and he starts to roll off White-Hair's shoulder. He yelps, seizing up in sudden panic.

There's a moment of sickening free-fall, but his back hits something soft instead of slamming into concrete like he's expecting. Above him, White-Hair chuckles. Deep and brief, but enough to snap Jason's attention back to him as he breathes in sharp bursts, trying to deal with that burst of adrenaline singing in his veins.

"Relax, boy," he says, drawling and amused. "I'm not planning on hurting you, long as you don't do anything stupid."

Jason glares up at him, trying not to focus too much on how the man towers over him even resting his weight casually to one side like he is. It's a sensation that's only magnified when White-Hair reaches down and grabs his arm — ignoring how he jerks — to drag him upright. His back hits the same softness when he's pushed straight. A flick of his gaze identifies what he's on as a couch, light blue and remarkably not stained, but that's about all he gets before there's a hand at the side of his head and he can't focus on anything but the man in front of him.

Especially because he's leaning in, one knee bracing to the side of Jason's thighs as both hands come to his head, the first tangling in his hair and gripping tight enough to make it clear that pulling away is a bad idea. Unless he wants to lose all the hair wrapped up in those fingers. He glares, snarls a muffled warning, but White-Hair only scoffs.

"You know, there's a point where spirit just becomes stupidity." Fingers tug at the back of the gag. "Stay still, boy; the knot's a bit tight."

Jason blinks, White-Hair's hand pulling his head down a couple inches as he leans in and over him, presumably to get a look at the cloth serving as a gag. He doesn't fight, but he's really not sure whether it comes down to wanting the gag out, or whether he's just too surprised by the constant shifting of expectations to come up with a response in time. Either way, there's a grumble of discontent from above him, and then the cloth loosens and comes free.

Jason takes a deep breath as it falls out, wetting his lips and swallowing to try and get some moisture in his mouth. The corners of his mouth ache, but it's nothing bad enough to make him really hurt. He’s taken a lot worse.

White-Hair’s hand prompts him to look up after a moment, meeting that single blue eye again. "There. Now, how about we talk about what you've walked into, kid?"

Before he can think about it being a terrible idea, the words are spilling out of Jason's mouth.

"I didn't 'walk into' fucking anything, you enormous jackass. It is not my fault that your stupid town doesn't know how to put up some decent markers to actually let someone know they're about to walk into owned territory!" His jaw clenches, and it feels good to have his teeth grind together again, away from that stupid gag, and _oh_ it feels good to actually say what he's had burning at the base of his throat since the second he got dragged in here. “And then you bastards have the fucking nerve to treat me like I'm some idiot shelter kid who just wandered in cause he didn't know better. You know what? _Fuck_ you. If you do it on purpose you could at least own up to it!”

“You think we lure wanderers in to ambush them?” White-Hair responds, still sounding just as amused as before.

Jason hates that tone. “Well it’s that or your buddies are absolute shit at putting up decent markers. So which is it?”

The hand lets go of his hair, fingers brushing his jaw as he pulls back. Jason just manages not to jerk away as violently as he wants to.

“You’re here now; does it matter?”

“Yeah, I’d say it matters,” he snaps, watching carefully as White-Hair slides his knee off the couch, straightening up. “I generally like to know if the people I’m around are manipulative fucks trying to pass the blame off on the wanderer for ‘trespassing,’ when they didn’t mark their own damn territory to prevent it.”

Or if they’re doing it for much nastier reasons.

“No,” White-Hair answers, sounding pretty much sincere. “We don't do that.”

Jason swallows, trying to hold onto enough of the anger to keep steady under the unwavering gaze. “Great, then how about you get me out of these restraints, I'll get the hell out of your territory, and everyone wins?”

White-Hair only shakes his head. “I don't think so.”

“ _Why?_ ” Jason demands, frustration spilling up his throat. “I'm not a spy or whatever the hell it is you think! I just want to leave!”

The simple, “I believe you,” throws him off guard. He blinks, staring upward as White-Hair straightens up a bit and rolls both shoulders in an idle stretch. “Still, you'll stay. Until Billy decides otherwise.”

Billy… That has to be Wintergreen, right? Unless there's a third party above them both that Jason doesn't know about yet.

Behind his back, he draws both of his hands into tight fists. “And when will that be?”

“When he says.”

“That's not an answer.”

Slowly, White-Hair’s mouth curves into a small smirk. “It's not an answer you like,” he corrects. “Stubborn, aren't you?”

He's been called that before, more than once, but he knows how to recognize when he's hit a dead end. So instead he makes himself look away, casting his gaze around the room. And it is a room; someone lives here and Jason would bet just about anything that it belongs to the white-haired giant being an unhelpful prick to him right now. It's a little bit of a step up from the tents and constructed shelters back outside of that door. This… This must have been part of the original building.

“Why am I in here?” he asks, switching tracks. If he's not going to get an estimate of how long he'll be stuck here, he can at least get something. Hopefully.

His abrupt change in topic is greeted by a snort, but he gets an answer anyway. “Because you're interesting, and not all that bad looking.”

Jason goes a little stiff, processing _that_. Then, he finds just enough of a voice to warn, "You try, and I'll bite."

His warning is only greeted with a chuckle, as White-Hair crosses arms over his chest. “I’m sure you would. Don’t worry, boy, I’m not planning on forcing anything.”

“Then why bring it up?”

A lazy shrug, and a sharp-edged smirk. “I’m just offering an alternative.”

“Alternative to what?” Jason presses.

White-Hair shifts forward, and Jason recoils and snarls a warning but there’s really nothing he can do to stop the hand that closes around his throat. It shoves him back, pinning him to the couch as the bigger man leans down over him, knee sliding onto the couch beside him once again. The fingers are _just_ tight enough that Jason’s sure speaking would be a struggle, so he focuses on breathing instead.

“You don’t strike me,” White-Hair starts, holding his gaze, “as the kind of person to take captivity quietly. You’ll try to fight, or to escape, and you’ll end up with a bullet in your head. Billy won’t mind putting you down, if he has to; he didn’t build and hold this place by having a soft heart.”

Jason doesn’t have the words to refute that, even if he could really speak past White-Hair’s grip. But it does make his stomach churn unpleasantly.

Him, just bite his tongue and work as slave labor, for fuck knows how long? Yeah, he’d do his best to escape. He’d do whatever he had to, to try and get the hell out. Then it only comes down to whether he believes the prediction, and to his own irritation he’s finding he does.

Wintergreen more or less said that to him, right? That he didn’t like troublemakers. It’s not hard for Jason to believe that someone who is unwilling to let him leave, but also already doesn’t think he’ll behave as labor, would be willing to just take him to some secluded forest corner and off him instead. He’s seen much worse behaviors elsewhere. That one’s almost… humane.

White-Hair apparently sees the realization in his gaze, or at least sees something, because he says, “Agree, and you can be mine instead. He’ll trust me to keep you behaving, and I’m not as strict as the jailers.”

The hand loosens, sliding around to cup the side of his neck instead. Jason takes a deeper breath, mind whirling through possibilities and dangers as the steady gaze of White-Hair’s eye keeps him still.

“Yours?” he ends up echoing. “What does that mean exactly?”

The blunt answer of, “Sex, mainly,” is not quite what Jason expected, even with the hints. He chokes just a little. White-Hair’s mouth curls up at one corner. “Don’t worry, kid; I know what I'm doing. I’m not going to hurt you unless that’s what you’re into.”

“It’s not,” he’s quick to deny, flush rising on his cheeks.

“Alright.” White-Hair lets go of his neck, head tilting a little bit but that smirk persisting. “You’ll stay here with me, have limited access to the rest of the town, assuming you convince me you can be trusted unsupervised. You’ll be exempt from the work other captives do, but I might give you some minor tasks to keep you busy.”

Hah, yeah, he can translate that just fine.

“You want me to clean your room and let you fuck me, you mean?”

That gets him a snort. “Not the tasks I had in mind, but if it keeps you busy I wouldn't complain.”

Jason scowls, a little. “If I do agree, when do I get to leave?”

It’s not something he’s proud of, but Jason’s not exactly new to the idea of trading sex for safety. Not all that many options for an orphaned kid in one of the rougher shelters; he’s done a lot he’s not proud of. This actually sounds like a better deal than some of the others he’s made, and White-Hair… Well, he could look a lot worse, even if he has been a bit of a dick. Jason's not opposed to guys, if they know what they're doing. If they aren't into the messed up, bloody sides of kink.

White-Hair shrugs. “When Billy says you can, or when I get tired of you. Whichever happens first.”

“You think you're going to get tired of me?”

That gets him a small laugh. “Nothing personal, boy. I get tired of everyone.”

That's not bad. Two different ways out, including one that just depends on him being boring. He can do boring, if he has to.

His only real worry is, “And how do I know you're not some sadist or something?” His teeth grit for a second, looking up at the massive, muscled arms and shoulders of White-Hair. Normally he'd be confident in being able to enforce what he didn't want, but against someone with that kind of size…

“You don't.” It's blunt, unapologetic. “You’d have to trust my word.”

Fair enough. What’s Jason going to do, believe it if he says he isn’t? There’s no safety check here that he can put any real faith in.

It’s a better choice. Has more options for escaping too, if he needs to. Fuck, well, it’s not the worst deal he’s made to keep himself alive, and it might not even be that bad. The guy didn’t hit him when he tried to kick earlier, or the times he’s jerked away. Grabbed him, sure, but none of it’s actually hurt.

Finally, Jason grinds out, “Nothing extreme. And if you want to do something weird, you warn me first.”

The corner of White-Hair’s mouth quirks up. “Done. Is that a yes then, boy?”

Jason dips his head just a little, hesitating but making himself carry through with the decision. “Yes. And it’s Jason.”

The quirk expands to a full-on smirk. “Slade. How about we start with a wash?”

Oh yeah, because he wants to get thrown over a shoulder again. “How about we start with getting these cables off me?”

Slade holds his gaze as he slips one hand to pull that big old knife from his belt again, other hand coming down to brace on his thigh and no, the touch definitely doesn’t have to be that firm or spread out quite _that_ much. The fingers pressing into the inside of his thigh actually do a good enough job distracting him that he only panics a little bit at that big knife sliding between his thighs to hook underneath the cable tying his knees together. It snaps. (How fucking sharp is that knife?)

The ones around his ankles and wrists are a lot easier for him to breathe through, and when his hands come free and ease the tension on his shoulders he gives a reflexive sigh of relief. Much better.

He blinks and looks up when he hears Slade ask, “Shall we?”

There’s a hand in front of his face, palm up and waiting.

Jason inhales, and takes it.


End file.
